The Spring Offering
The barmy, old man removed his glass eye and aimed it toward her. It gawked at her, glistening with exasperation for her outlandish tale. His belly laugh was generous, jiggled like a gelatinous leach attached to his abdomen. He never took her seriously.
“Stop laughing at me and put your eye back in, old man,” Cindra said. “Someday you’ll be sorry that you treated your own daughter this way.”
He snatched his eye from the table, squeezed it back into the socket and said, “You’re a fool. A grown woman shouldn’t believe in such childish folklore. The alp is about as real as my eye. You should be done with this silliness after this season.”
“We’ve been through this. It’s important to me. I’ve asked you to quit belittling my beliefs.”
“Your mother planted some crazy ideas in your head. You know she was nutty.”
“How dare you ridicule her. She was brilliant and passionate. She believed, so I believe.”
As he stood to leave, he winked his glass eye at Cindra. She looked away.
When she was a child, he would leave it on her bedside table as a joke. Cindra would awaken to the eerie eye watching her and scream. Her mother would comfort her and tell her it was his way of joking. Nevertheless, Cindra grew to hate the eye.
“Goodnight, Cindra. I’m bushed.”
She waved a gesture of goodnight as he hobbled from the room.
Cindra was thankful he finally went to bed. He was insufferable. She was tired of his flippant attitude. If her mother were still alive, she would defend the old man. She never understood her mother’s romanticized notions of her father.
While she prepared a basket of plump strawberries and peaches, she thought about the first time her mother taught her about the appearance of the alp. Cindra was five, eager to learn and trust.
The alp, an elfin-like creature, came in the night to torment humans by sitting atop their chest. They caused nightmares that predicted death to those unprotected ones in the household. They could be kept away by a nightly spring offering of treats and a request for protection.
For 92 spring nights, Cindra and her mother placed the treats on the exposed roots of the only giant maple tree on their family farm. Her mother died six years ago, but Cindra continued the tradition.
Tonight was the 92nd night, the last night of the season. Cindra made her way to the maple using the moonlight. She knelt down and placed the filled basket at the base of the tree.
She whispered her request to the alp, “Accept my offering as a token of my respect. I only ask that you keep me and my father…”
Cindra stopped, thought of all the times her father laughed at their ritual. All the callous names he called them. He didn’t believe, so why should she offer him protection. After all, if he didn’t believe, nothing would happen to him.
She amended her request, “I only ask that you keep me safe from the nightmares, until I awake to the light of day.”
With the final ritual completed, she returned to the house. She slept peacefully and woke to a glorious morning sunrise.
As she sipped coffee over the kitchen sink, she heard her father stir. He entered the kitchen and grumbled a cranky, “Mornin’.”
“Morning. How did you sleep?”
“Bad. Worst night’s sleep ever.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Cindra turned to face him and was shocked by how sickly he looked, as if he had deteriorated 30 years overnight.
“Dad, you look sick. What’s wrong?”
“I told you. I had a bad night, that’s all.”
“I know, it’s just, I’m surprised that you seem so drained.”
He snapped his head up and looked at her. She saw terror in his good eye.
“Did you do your little ritual thing last night?”
She swallowed hard and replied, “I did. Same as every other night. Why does it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” he exclaimed. “I told you I think it’s nonsense.”
She waited him out.
“I had a nightmare. The same one over and over.”
“And, what was the nightmare, Dad?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it anymore,” he said angrily, as he got up to pour a cup of coffee.
He leaned against the counter and put the cup to his mouth. His hands trembled. Coffee spilled over the side, dripped on the floor.
“What was the nightmare, Dad?”
“You did something different with the offering last night, didn’t you?” he surprised her with the question. “Did you ask them to keep both of us safe or just you?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in it. So why do you care?”
“Why?” he yelled. “Who do you think taught your mother about the alp, the offerings, the nightmares?”
Cindra was speechless. She couldn’t comprehend why he had protested all those years and yet he secretly believed.
“I told your mother to stop the offerings after the first spring. I told her if she didn’t invite them in to begin with, they wouldn’t come. Everything would be fine. But once you start it, you have to continue through to season’s end. Did she forget to tell you that part?”
“What?” No!”
“And did she tell you what the nightmares predict?”
“Death,” she answered with a feeling of dread.
“Did you leave me out of the offering, Cindra? Exclude me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, “but only because you always said you didn’t believe.”
“My nightmare, Cindra, predicted your death. Not mine. Your death. The nightmares always predict the death of the one who does the offering and request, of the one who excludes the other person.”
Her mouth gaped open in disbelief.
“Now you see why I wanted the rituals to stop? Now do you see?” he pleaded as a single tear spilled from his good eye.
The barmy, old man removed his glass eye and aimed it toward her. It gawked at her, glistening with exasperation for her outlandish tale. His belly laugh was generous, jiggled like a gelatinous leach attached to his abdomen. He never took her seriously.
“Stop laughing at me and put your eye back in, old man,” Cindra said. “Someday you’ll be sorry that you treated your own daughter this way.”
He snatched his eye from the table, squeezed it back into the socket and said, “You’re a fool. A grown woman shouldn’t believe in such childish folklore. The alp is about as real as my eye. You should be done with this silliness after this season.”
“We’ve been through this. It’s important to me. I’ve asked you to quit belittling my beliefs.”
“Your mother planted some crazy ideas in your head. You know she was nutty.”
“How dare you ridicule her. She was brilliant and passionate. She believed, so I believe.”
As he stood to leave, he winked his glass eye at Cindra. She looked away.
When she was a child, he would leave it on her bedside table as a joke. Cindra would awaken to the eerie eye watching her and scream. Her mother would comfort her and tell her it was his way of joking. Nevertheless, Cindra grew to hate the eye.
“Goodnight, Cindra. I’m bushed.”
She waved a gesture of goodnight as he hobbled from the room.
Cindra was thankful he finally went to bed. He was insufferable. She was tired of his flippant attitude. If her mother were still alive, she would defend the old man. She never understood her mother’s romanticized notions of her father.
While she prepared a basket of plump strawberries and peaches, she thought about the first time her mother taught her about the appearance of the alp. Cindra was five, eager to learn and trust.
The alp, an elfin-like creature, came in the night to torment humans by sitting atop their chest. They caused nightmares that predicted death to those unprotected ones in the household. They could be kept away by a nightly spring offering of treats and a request for protection.
For 92 spring nights, Cindra and her mother placed the treats on the exposed roots of the only giant maple tree on their family farm. Her mother died six years ago, but Cindra continued the tradition.
Tonight was the 92nd night, the last night of the season. Cindra made her way to the maple using the moonlight. She knelt down and placed the filled basket at the base of the tree.
She whispered her request to the alp, “Accept my offering as a token of my respect. I only ask that you keep me and my father…”
Cindra stopped, thought of all the times her father laughed at their ritual. All the callous names he called them. He didn’t believe, so why should she offer him protection. After all, if he didn’t believe, nothing would happen to him.
She amended her request, “I only ask that you keep me safe from the nightmares, until I awake to the light of day.”
With the final ritual completed, she returned to the house. She slept peacefully and woke to a glorious morning sunrise.
As she sipped coffee over the kitchen sink, she heard her father stir. He entered the kitchen and grumbled a cranky, “Mornin’.”
“Morning. How did you sleep?”
“Bad. Worst night’s sleep ever.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Cindra turned to face him and was shocked by how sickly he looked, as if he had deteriorated 30 years overnight.
“Dad, you look sick. What’s wrong?”
“I told you. I had a bad night, that’s all.”
“I know, it’s just, I’m surprised that you seem so drained.”
He snapped his head up and looked at her. She saw terror in his good eye.
“Did you do your little ritual thing last night?”
She swallowed hard and replied, “I did. Same as every other night. Why does it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” he exclaimed. “I told you I think it’s nonsense.”
She waited him out.
“I had a nightmare. The same one over and over.”
“And, what was the nightmare, Dad?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it anymore,” he said angrily, as he got up to pour a cup of coffee.
He leaned against the counter and put the cup to his mouth. His hands trembled. Coffee spilled over the side, dripped on the floor.
“What was the nightmare, Dad?”
“You did something different with the offering last night, didn’t you?” he surprised her with the question. “Did you ask them to keep both of us safe or just you?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in it. So why do you care?”
“Why?” he yelled. “Who do you think taught your mother about the alp, the offerings, the nightmares?”
Cindra was speechless. She couldn’t comprehend why he had protested all those years and yet he secretly believed.
“I told your mother to stop the offerings after the first spring. I told her if she didn’t invite them in to begin with, they wouldn’t come. Everything would be fine. But once you start it, you have to continue through to season’s end. Did she forget to tell you that part?”
“What?” No!”
“And did she tell you what the nightmares predict?”
“Death,” she answered with a feeling of dread.
“Did you leave me out of the offering, Cindra? Exclude me?”
“Yes,” she whispered, “but only because you always said you didn’t believe.”
“My nightmare, Cindra, predicted your death. Not mine. Your death. The nightmares always predict the death of the one who does the offering and request, of the one who excludes the other person.”
Her mouth gaped open in disbelief.
“Now you see why I wanted the rituals to stop? Now do you see?” he pleaded as a single tear spilled from his good eye.
